


The Truly Fabulous 21st Century Idiots

by orphan_account



Category: American Idiot (Album), Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Green Day, Green Day - 21st Century Breakdown (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>21st Century Breakdown, Danger Days, and American Idiot, all sort of smashed together. Features band members as their corresponding killjoys, Billie Joe and Adrienne as Christian and Gloria, Mike as Jesus, and Tré as Saint Jimmy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Teenagers, Song of the Century, and American Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, first fic! For MCR, that is. Anyway, I'd appreciate any sort of feedback, general comments, grammar corrections, or otherwise. Some characters (Gerard... Gerard...) are a bit off in this chapter, so make a note of that. Also, this was written on my iPod, and as many times as I proofread it (six or seven), I don't have a beta, so there still might be some stuff that... Y'know... Sucks... So there. Now read.

\-----August 14, 2012-----

\-----Newark, NJ-----

You know what? Fuck it. Fuck it all. Fuck school, fuck my parents, fuck the bastards who beat up my brother. I cannot even bring myself to care anymore. I die tonight anyway. That is right, I have it all planned out. I am going to jump right off the effing roof and crash to the ground. Dead.

I wrote a couple songs today. My favorite is something I would like to call "Teenagers". I think the song is pretty good, but it needs a chorus. You hear that, whoever reads this? It. Needs. A. Chorus. Write one. Or have someone else do it, I don't care. Anyway, here it is:

_They gonna clean up you looks_   
_With all the lies in the books_   
_To make a citizen out of you_   
_Because they sleep with a gun_   
_And keep an eye on you, son_   
_So they can watch all the things you do_

_Because the drugs never work_   
_They gonna give you a smirk_   
_'Cos they got methods of keeping you clean_   
_They gonna rip up your heads_   
_Your aspirations to shreds_   
_Another cog in the murder machine_

_The boys and girls in the cliques_   
_The awful names that they stick_   
_You're never gonna fit in much, kid_   
_But if you're troubled and hurt_   
_What you got under your shirt_   
_'ll make 'em pay for the things that they did_

Pretty okay, if I do say so myself... I got the idea when some kids tried to get Mikey to be more "normal", then beat him up and called him a faggot. Bastards. Those teenagers scare the living shit out of him. They could care less about anyone.

Anyway, that's all. My note. The last you will ever hear from me. Ever. Bye.

-Gee

Gerard put the note on his desk for whomever noticed it first to see, and went up onto the roof. "Alright," he muttered, psyching himself out. "Let's do this."

Then he saw it fall. The huge, dark bullet-looking thing that would doom his entire family. A bomb.

His eyes widened as he realized, "Mikey..."

As fast as he could, he climbed back down. He ran down the hall to his brother's room.

"Mikey!!"

Mikey was already awake. "Yeah?"

"Mikey, get down!"

Suddenly, everything flashed white. When he awoke, the room was destroyed. Glass from the windows littered the floor. His legs were trapped under a dresser, giving him little freedom of movement. "Mikey? Mikey...?!"

Mikey gave no response, but lifted the heavy piece of furniture from atop his brother. "You okay?"

Gerard stood. "Yeah, fine. I thought I lost you for a second there."

"Why were you so worried about that, if you were going to commit suicide, anyway?" Mikey asked, innocent enough.

"You knew?" Gerard replied.

"You talk while you write. Nice song, by the way."

Gerard's ears turned pink, "thank you."

There was silence for a moment before Mikey of all people spoke up, "Gee, where are mom and dad?"

Gerard's eyes widened. He said, "I have no idea. Let's check." Though he knew it was pointless. If they were alive, they would have checked on him and his brother. But he wasn't about to tell his thirteen-year old kid brother that.

Slowly, cautiously, Gerard walked to his parents' room, Mikey following close behind.

As he opened the door, he immediately wanted to shut it again. It was too horrible. There was no way anything in there could be alive. Blood was splattered everywhere; the floors, the walls, the sheets, all covered in the remnants of the ceiling that used to be overhead. Knowing there was no way anyone was in there, he called, "Mom?"

No response.

Mikey, frightened, cried out again, "Mom? Dad?!"

The silence was painful. It seemed as if every moment of waiting for a reply was longer than the last. After a while, Gerard (who was near tears) turned to Mikey and whispered, "I think they're gone, Mikey..."

Mikey bit his lower lip, deep in thought. Rather than tears or denial, his first response was, "Where do we go now, Gee?"

Gerard shook his head, "I have no idea..."

For what was a sixteen-year old boy and his brother of thirteen to do when an apocalyptic missiles were raining down on the whole nation?

\-----Detroit, MI-----

This was it. First day of twelfth grade. BJ was pumped as a seventeen year old boy could be as he walked through the doors of his school. It wasn't classes he was excited for, though. Sitting in a desk as his brain was slowly fried by a bunch of old teachers was not BJ's idea of a good time. Nor was he excited to see his friends. His only friend, Mike, had run away the day before. No, he wanted to see Adrienne. The most beautiful girl in the universe. She had it all: the looks, the wit, the botching school on purpose just to make a point. Just his kinda girl.

And here she was. The pale, petite brunette he had been thinking of all summer. First period English with him. Perfect.

"Hey, Billie," Adrienne greeted cheerfully.

"Hey," he replied similarly. "So, English..."

"Yup. Pretty cool, huh?" Aidie asked genuinely.

Personally, Billie Joe hated English, but he wasn't about to say that to her of all people. "Yeah, awesome as fuck."

That evening, they sat in the back of the school, talking about their day, and their lives. Adrienne shared a poem she wrote for her mother, who was a singer. She loved to hear her sing, but her mother was often too busy. "The poem's something like this," she explained.

"Sing us a song of the century  
It's louder than bombs and eternity  
The era of static and contraband  
Leading us into the promised land

Tell us a story that's by candlelight  
Waging the war, and losing the fight

To sing a song of the century  
Panic and promise and prosperity  
Tell me a story into that good night  
Sing us a song  
For me..."

"Nice," BJ smiled, placing an arm on her shoulder. "That'd be a good song..."

"You think so?" Adrienne replied hopefully.

"Yeah," he blushed. "If I ever were to make a band, I'd totally use that."

There was silence for a moment. BJ gently tilted her chin toward himself. Slowly, they both leaned in. That's when the first bomb hit. Even across town, both of them could feel the vibration; smell the smoke.

More were sure to come. In unison, they both took cover in the corner where brick walls met, and Adrienne had BJ help her pull a dumpster into the small space, making a small triangle. There they crouched for what seemed like forever, scared as hell and waiting for sounds of destruction to cease. Tears of fear and mourning streamed down both their faces as BJ pulled the dumpster into its original position.

"Holy shit," he said hopelessly. "They're all dead, aren't they?" His house was down the street. It had already burned down, smoke and ashes were all that was left. He sobbed (a rare occurrence) into his hands. The whole street was decimated, and somehow this schoolyard had made it. He wanted to scream. His world was destroyed. Shaking his fist at the sky, he angrily shouted, "Why don't ya take me with you, huh?! You need me for something? Because trust me, I'm not your chosen one! I eff up everything I do! Just kill me!"

Adrienne shook him out of it. "Billie!"

"Fuck you, universe!"

"Billie Joe!"

He turned.

"You're still alive, stop talking to God."

BJ managed a smirk, "fine. At least I still got you."

"Yeah, I guess you do," Adrienne replied, leaning in for a kiss.

After they broke, BJ asked, "So where do we go from here?"

\-----Jingletown, MI-----

Mike was done with his old life. He was done being in a bankrupt city with countless washed up streets, broken homes, and mundane 7-11s and bars filled with useless drunks wasting their lives on sex, drugs, and televisions. What lunacy. What hypocrisy. What idiocy.

The idiots of America.

Mike rolled his eyes. They still had hope in America, even as America robbed them of their money, their freedom, their lives.

He didn't want a part of it.

"Don't wanna be an American idiot, one nation controlled by the media..."

He trailed off, noticing the broad missile in the distance.

_Information age of hysteria, is going out to idiot America..._

It shot down slowly, as if defying gravity. Or was that just the shock? As it sank down, a chill traveled down his spine. He shivered, and the bomb hit ground.

_Welcome to a new kind of tension. All across the alien nation._

The dust swirled about, blurring his vision and causing him to cough. When it passed, he kept walking. This seemed to be more of a low-grade one, which made sense seeing as he was in a small hole-in-the-wall of a town. His mother's house was still intact in the distance, and that was all that mattered. Of all people, he owed his mother an explanation. A reason for leaving.

Even if she was a chain-smoking loser who had wasted her life on stupid habits and home-abandoning men like his father.

Of all people, he trusted her with the knowledge that he was a prophet.

"Call me Jesus, why don't ya?" Mike murmured under his breath.


	2. Gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who left kudos or reviewed! About the lack of mourning, I think Gerard, Mikey, and Billie Joe were pretty realistic in that respect; Gloria and Mike less so. I'll admit, Mike's transition from "holy shit, a bomb!" to "okay, I'll keep walking" is almost humorously quick, but Gloria has a good reason I'll reveal later. So there. The song featured in this chapter is "Gun.", off of Number Two (cited mainly so it doesn't look like I'm plagiarizing), and, um, yeah... That's it.

  
\-----May 28, 2015; 3:49 AM\-----

\-----Zone 3 (Reno, NV area)-----

 

I wake up in a cold sweat to the sound of ray guns. At once, I shoot up out of the bed, gripping my brilliantly violent weapon (a metal spatula), and get on my protective armor (a steel bowl helmet and a trash can lid shield), going into the kitchen to face the dracs that probably wanted to brainwash me. For the fifteenth time this month. Yup, my life is awesome.

Oh, me? Just your typical quirky tattooed freedom fighter, who was gonna be a great doctor till the first Pig Bomb. That's when Battery City got the bright idea to only let people in Zones 1 and 7 (California and New England) get degrees, and I decided not to register pro-Better Living so I could move. And look how far that got me; I'm living in the middle of fucking nowhere, doctoring for less money than it takes to fix a car and pretending my little shack's even a competent barrier against Better Living's goons.

Name? Not saying. Only an idiot would say their real name out here, unless they wanna be dusted. Call me Fun Ghoul.

Oh, yeah! Dracs in the kitchen! Might wanna check on that. My mind focusing on the task at hand, I run into the room, wielding my spatula like a medieval knight would a sword to fight.

The kitchen is completely fine when I get there, apart from the new hole in the wall, fire not quite dead yet. And there aren't any dracs for once.

There are two boys.

"Oh, that's how you fire a ray gun," says a dirty-blond haired kid about my age, as a pale guy a bit older with dark hair gapes.

"What the hell...?" I wonder aloud.

They both turn. Blondie drops the gun and throws his hand in the air. "I'm so sorry! I- I..." He turns to the other, looking for something to say.

I can't look weak now. They'll take advantage of me. Taking off my helmet, I interject, "Say, I don't know who you two are, or how you got here, but if you don't get out, then soon as I get my gun-!"

The elder clears his throat. "Look, my brother and I are runaways. We saw this place and we were gonna stay the night just in here. We didn't mean to cause trouble, and we'll fix the mess, it's just..." He casts his eyes to the ground.

I smirk, dropping spatula and letting my guard down a bit. Blondie only looks about sixteen, too young to be able to do anything really detrimental. "Look... You guys got names?"

"I'm Gerard," says the older one, "and this is Mikey."

"Gerard, you say? You aren't from around here, are ya? We don't go by real names. You can call me Fun Ghoul. I'm a freedom fighter... In fact, this town is full of rebels..."

Gerard looks right at me. His eyes are shocking, a hazelly-brown with flecks of blue and green. "You're a rebel, too?"

"Sure am," I reply with an enthusiastic smile.

He averts his glare, and gives a thoughtful look for a moment. "That's exactly why I left Battery City. I want to make a difference. I want to lead a rebellion."

He pauses for a moment, then looks at me again. "I know this is an awkward question, but you don't happen to know where I can get some hair dye, do you? I need to look different. We're both sort of outlaws now..."

"Well yeah, Chow Mein's 'bout a mile down... He could prolly get you some masks, too."

"So you're in?"

"I guess I am."

 

\-----May 28, 2015; 12:56 PM\-----

 

"Red?!" Mikey gawks. I don't blame the kid; his brother looks like a chick.

Gerard sees no issue in this. "Yes, why?"

"It's kind of..." Mikey looks like he wants to say something detrimental, but can't seem to bring himself to be able to. "I don't know. Red."

"Why's that so bad?" Gerard furrows his eyebrows in concern.

"It's... Not black..."

"It's not supposed to be black. It's supposed to be red. I like red," he smiles, which make him look even more girly than the long, bright red hair already does.

"Fine; fine. I'm probably just gonna bleach it."

"You do that."

"Fine."

"Fine!" Gerard rolls his eyes.

Mikey storms off, seemingly exasperated.

I snort. "Are you two always like this?"

Gerard stares at the ground. "No. We're not. He's just homesick, and fed up that we have to move."

"So, why'd you have to move, anyway?"

"BL/ind started drugging him because he didn't smile enough," Gerard replies. "I mean, I agree that he should smile more, but serotonin injections against his will? You're kidding me."

I give a low whistle. "I knew those guys were nut-jobs, but..."

"I even confronted one of the doctors. He said that he got serotonin injections as well, and by 2019, everyone up to Zone 15 would have a daily dose of it."

Zone 15? That's all the way to Russia!

"I don't want to know. Oh, you'll probably need a new jacket, if you don't wanna get recognized. BL/ind ones are tagged."

Gerard immediately shoves his white sweater off his shoulders. "Where? Can I get rid of it?"

"Yeah, Ol' Glory or Jet Star could prolly do that for you. But it'd tear it apart."

"Hmm... I guess I could find a new one." He looks around the place, from where Mikey is talking to Chow Mein about hair, to the racks with masks and such, finally landing on a shelf with tons of hangers hooked onto it. "Maybe that blue one..." He wakes over and takes it off the hooks.

It's very 80's, to say the least. The words "Dead Pegasus" are in bold on the top left side, and the material resembles something from Back to the Future II. Fitting, I suppose.

I fake a smile, "Yeah, I guess that could work. How much money did you take out of Battery City, anyway?"

"Enough. My parents left a good amount in their will."

"Oh, parents are ghosted? Helium Wars?"

Gerard looks at the ground. "Yeah. You?"

His eyes meet mine. "Same thing. My dad took off a while ago. My mom was killed in the Bombings though. We lived in the middle of nowhere in Nevada somewhere. Decided to just sort of stay here. Then the dracs came and burned down the house. That shack back there's all I have left. Kinda pathetic, huh?"

"I don't think so. At least you can fend for yourself, right? Wow, we're already out in Nevada already?"

"Yeah, 'bout 25 miles east of Reno. And did you see me last night? That's pathetic. Don't even have a gun."

Gerard pauses for a moment. "Wait, didn't you threaten to pull your gun on us before?"

I crack a smile, "I was bluffing. The government took my gun long ago. They'll prolly want yours too, pretty soon."

"Y'know, I never got the whole 'Gun.' mandate. And the way they advertised it, with the maniac saying what he would do when he got his gun. They wouldn't need to worry if they taught citizens to fight less or something..."

_They're teaching me to kill; who's teaching me to love. Now baby..._

"Isn't it crazy?" I finish aloud. "Anyway, you have an idea what your new name is yet?"

"I was thinking Party Crasher, but that sounds too stereotypical. Something that says I'll kill the party, but more poetic, and less stupid."

Crash. Kill. Death. Knives. Drugs. Poison.

Poison...

"Say, how 'bout Party Poison?"

A light shines in his eyes. A smile creeps onto his face. "That's perfect. Party Poison. It's all alliteration-y and stuff."

Because alliteration-y is definitely a word.. 

After awhile, the three of us walk out of the shop together. The brothers look nothing like they did yesterday.

Party Poison buys the jacket, along with a yellow mask, a new pair of gray jeans, a helmet (a helmet?), biker-style, that he decided not to wear, and paints to personalize his clothing. His aura is just as confident as last night, but a new anger and determination shows itself in the way his face contorts at all of Better Living's worn signs on the streets, the people living in piss-poor shacks with only dog food to eat.

The Kobra Kid (as Mikey decided to call himself) does in fact bleach his hair, shaving the sides short but leaving it long on the top. He wears the same pair of jeans, and buys a red leather jacket with some black lining. He seems excited about this whole revolutionist movement thing. Not outwardly so much (the kid really doesn't smile much), but whenever he speaks, he's either asking his brother a question, or plotting some demonstration for their scheme.

They both look pretty tacky. I try to think of how I'll get my outfit to look that 80's. I guess I'll just wear my normal jeans and shirt with my Frankenstein (get it? 'Cos... Wait, no, you don't) mask. That'd work. Sort of.

I can't wait till Jet Star hears about this. He'll enjoy the idea. He wouldn't join, but he'd get a kick out of these two. He's too smart to buy it, though.

I should probably be less naïve too, but I'm not.

It's just too tempting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my way of numbering zones is kinda messed up. For one, I'm pretty sure the legit version is only America and has hundreds of separate zones... I should probably post a map or something, so I don't confuse people. I just cover more area per zone, and use the whole world. That's about all. I'm weird that way.


	3. 21st Century Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gloria takes a thousand words to go through her morning routine. And she does it with lame preachy poetry, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the song's 21st Century Breakdown, off of 21st Century Breakdown. Don't own, y'know the drill. Gloria sounds a little stupid, as my chapter summary easily admits, but... Meh...

\-----May 28, 2015; 5:35 AM\-----

 -----Zone 3 (Reno, NV area)-----

 

 

 

I often thought that life would improve if I didn't have to worry about my daily routine. School, work, sleep, repeat. Forever.

Despite the initial "oh crap, my parents and sister are dead" aspect of the bombings (which wasn't nearly as hard for me as Christian; I was never particularly attached), I almost celebrated. No need to worry about doing my homework; there wouldn't be class. 

If my teachers were alive at all.

Sure it was sad, I mean, wouldn't be able to hear my dad rant about growing up in the seventies, being part of the working class and such.

When he was born, Nixon was president, and he always used to tell me how much of a lying, cheating bastard of a president he was.

He born and raised in a blue collar family, became a mechanic, married a waitress, and raised a working-class family of his own.

Thus why I know how to fix a car well enough to have a specialized job. 

_My generation is zero..._

_I never made a working class hero..._

We couldn't handle all the working class crap, so hey, why not bomb our nation?

Of course, here I am in post-apocalyptic America, and I'm still blue collar. Go figure.

_Twenty-first century breakdown_

_I once was lost but never was found_

_I think I'm losing my mind_

_To the twenty-first century deadline_

I've never really figured out how to make myself useful after the bombings. I don't think anyone has, really. Everyone who realizes that BL/ind isn't doing anything but keeping us lost doesn't know what to do about it. Truthfully, despite being idiotic, they have an amazing military system. No one would ever want to run into a drac, much less a S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W...

_I was made of poison and blood_

_Condemnation is what I understood_

_Video games to the towers' fall_

_Open security could kill us all_

I awake from my thoughts. I need to get going. He's waiting for me to start the protest.

But it still repeats in my head.

 

_My generation is zero  
_ _I never made a working class hero_

_Twenty-first century breakdown  
_ _I once was lost but never was found_

_I think I'm losing my mind  
_ _To the twenty-first century deadline_

I put on my short black skirt with a red and black striped shirt and a leather jacket. I check my eyeliner, see that it's thick enough.

I pull a bandana over my nose bandit-style, so I can't be identified by your typical drac.

And me? My life? Class of thirteen, folks. I was just months from graduating when the bombs hit. Months from the title "educated", which would've let me be a doctor or peacemaker in Battery City. Months from success. But I hadn't graduated, and thus hadn't been capable of such titles.

Desperate for strength in an economic recession, working already, but still in my parents' home. 

I sigh, shrugging the thought off, and walk outside yelling, "Helloooo, world!"

Now the world knows I'm protesting today. They probably don't like it, but who cares? 

Christian meets me, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.

His name isn't really Christian. None of us can use our real names here. BL/ind's conning us all, so we can't even use the names we were given; we have to choose one. 

He chose Blazing Inferno, but we all call him Christian (don't ask). 

I chose Viva Gloria ("long live glory" in Latin), pretty much shortened down to Gloria at this point.

He works with his hands. We both do. It could've been much better. I wouldn't be a mechanic; he wouldn't be a blacksmith (because who wants to be a blacksmith, anyway?), and we could lead semi-normal lives.

I don't catch what he's saying, but the word "drac" is angrily spit out of his mouth at some points. 

He is enraged already, lord knows why. He always gets mad at some point in the day, but this is especially early. 

_"I made to the edge  
_ _And I've thrown the bouquet..."_

It feels like we've done so much already; we should be done with this corporation ruling our lives. But somehow it's not that way, and I'm still restricted.

_"Praise liberty  
_ _The freedom to obey  
_ _It's the song that strangles me  
_ _Well, don't cross the line!"_

The sun finally rises, and I raise my voice, a rebel tune coming into my head:

_"Oh, dream, America!_   
_Dream?!_   
_I can't even sleep from the light's early dawn!"_

Christian smirks. He likes it when I sing.

_"Oh, scream, America!_   
_Scream!_   
_Believe what you see from heroes and cons..."_

And now the day begins.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike Dirnt A.K.A Jesus thinks he's all that, but the people of his town think otherwise. He decides to leave

\-----January 21, 2014; 4:26 PM-----

\-----Zone 5 (Joplin, MO area)-----

 

_"Mike, look, I'm so sorry I laughed at you when you told me your story. I was just shocked, is all. Please come back to me. I'm scared for you there all alone. Please, Mike? Anyway, love from Mom! Don't call back unless you're telling me you're coming home!"_

I wanna puke so much right now. She's lying and she knows it. Sure, she loves me, but she'll never believe me.

Sometimes, I think she just loves me because I remind her of Dad. I get angry too easily, just like him.

_I'm the son of rage and love  
_ _The Jesus of Suburbia_

I really am, aren't I? Preacher of little beat-up towns. Sure, they help me around, gimme money, but only 'cos they need me.

_The bible of none of the above  
_ _On a steady diet of_

Just sorta sit on the couch all day. When the prophesies come, they come.

_Soda pop and Ritalin  
_ _No one ever died for  
_ _My sins in hell  
_ _Far as I can tell  
_ _Least the ones I got away with_

Sitting here, puffing on my joint, waiting for the hallucinations to start.

_And there's nothing wrong with me  
_ _This is how I'm s'posed to be  
_ _In a land of make-believe  
_ _They don't believe in me_

A man, average height, wearing a blue jacket with bright, dyed red hair. It looks almost pink in the sunlight. A yellow mask covers his eyes, and he points his ray gun right at me. It goes blurry.

_Get my television fixed  
_ _Sitting on my crucifix_

A taller guy, a helmet covering his face labeled "GOOD LUCK", holding me by the neck against the wall at least two feet off the ground.

_My living room  
_ _Or my private womb  
_ _While the moms and brads are away_

Another man, mask pulled off, with a mischievous smile, pointing a knife at a drac, then flinching as he killed him.

_To fall in love or fall in debt  
_ _To alcohol and cigarettes  
_ _And Mary Jane  
_ _To keep me insane  
_ _Doing someone else's cocaine_

Billie Joe and Adrienne, hands in the air as dracs cuffed them and led them inside a shack, probably to kill them.

_And there's nothing wrong with me  
_ _This is how I'm s'posed to be  
_ _In a land of make-believe  
_ _They don't believe in me_

All six of them around me. I'm being interrogated, asked all sorts of questions.

The word killjoy, over and over again, hurting my head, numbing my brain.

Killjoys.

Killjoys.

_109_ _in the sky, but the pigs won't quit_ _..._

I awake from my thoughts, muttering curses under my breath. My joint is used up (where's Two-Dollar Bill when I need him?), and my high is wearing off.

“How long was I out?” is all I think to say.

This isn't something I declare to the people in this town.

This is for me. I finally had a vision about me.

I go the one place I know I can get some privacy...

_At the center of the Earth  
_ _In the parking lot  
_ _Of the 7-11  
_ _Where I was taught_

The motto was just a lie

No, not the parking lot itself. There's a shit-load of people there. I'm headed for the bathroom.

_It says home is where the heart is but  
_ _What a shame  
_ _'Cos everyone's heart  
_ _Doesn't beat the same  
_ _It's beating out of time_

I lock the door, and get out my crayons. I'm pretty sure they're never gonna realize that I'm the one who vandalizes the bathroom every time I need to figure out a prophesy.

_City of the dead  
_ _At the end of another lost highway  
_ _Signs misleading to nowhere_

That's the first thing that appears on the wall. My town. The nameless little town where everyone has thrown their life away on cigarettes and alcohol.

_City of the damned  
_ _Lost children with dirty faces today  
_ _No one really seems to care_

They're happy like that. I mean, it's as close as you can get to Battery City without actually going to Battery City.

_I read the graffiti  
_ _In the bathroom stall  
_ _Like the holy scriptures  
_ _Of the shopping mall  
_ _And so it seemed to confess_

After awhile, there's a reasonable amount of stuff on the wall. I look at a spiral I frantically drew.

_It didn't say much  
_ _But it only confirmed  
_ _That the center of the earth  
_ _Is the end of the world  
_ _And I could really care less_

This town's gonna die. They're all gonna die.

_City of the dead  
_ _At the end of another lost highway  
_ _Signs misleading to nowhere_

And it's all gonna start here, at the 7-11.

_City of the damned  
_ _Lost children with dirty faces today  
_ _No one really seems to care_

I leave the building. I didn't get any answers to my question, but I got some useful information.

I tell them my prophesy, and immediately one comes out and shouts, "Who cares?! We're all dead anyway!"

_I don't care if you don't_

_I don't care if you don't_

_I don't care if you don't_

_CARE!_

I think that to myself, but tell them to worry. They yell, "I don't _care_!!"

The prophesy takes over. I can no longer control my speech.

"Everyone's so full of shit!

Born and raised by hypocrites!"

Some seem angered by this.

"Hearts recycled but never saved

From the cradle to the grave!"

It's true, they do the same thing over and over again.

They respond:

"We are the kids of war and peace

From Anaheim to the Middle East

We are the stories and disciples of

The Jesus of Suburbia!"

Yeah, right. They don't believe this. They'll never believe this.

A guy shoves me. I smack him in the face.

_Land of make-believe_

_And they don't believe in me_

Before long, it's a full-on fight, and people need to restrain us.

_Land of make believe_

_And they don't believe_

_And I don't care_

I say, "Y'know what? I don't care!"

I repeat it the whole way home:

_I don't care!_

_I don't care!_

_I don't care!_

I sit in my room, thinking over my decision. I know it's the right one, but it seems morally wrong to leave these people, even after they've openly admitted that they don't care if they die out here in Nowhere-land.

_Dearly beloved, are you listening?_

_I can't remember a word that you were saying._

No respect for anyone, especially not authority. They use me to keep making money gambling, or to say how many drinks one can have without dying, or something idiotic like that. But when I say that doom is imminent, they could care less! Who the fuck would even- I don't know...

_Are we demented or am I disturbed?_

_The space that's in between insane and insecure_

The sad thing is, it's not like I'm incredibly responsible or anything. Before the bombs, I got more detentions than any other kid in my school. I swear, my responsibility is limited to making sure that me, mom and Billie are- that is, were, okay. Because I have no idea where the kid is at this point; I can only assume he's with Adrienne. And those people.

Oh therapy, can you please fill the void?

Am I retarded or am I just overjoyed?

And now I'm here, in a town where people get high on the craziest shit on earth- no joke: the other day, I saw some dude get high on the stomach acid from a dead cow he'd found. I'll stick to weed, thanks.

_Nobody's perfect and I stand accused_

_For lack of a better word, and that's my best excuse_

Well, my bags are packed. I guess I have no choice. And I need to find those people, anyway.

_To live and not to breathe  
_ _Is to die in tragedy._

I slowly walk toward the door. Why am I so reluctant?

_To run, t_ _o run away  
_ _To find w_ _hat you believe_

I need to do this; it's fate. And, y'know, I'll die if I don't.

_And I_

_Leave behind_

_This hurricane of fucking lies!_

The liars, the thieves, the nonbelievers. Why should I be sad to leave?

_I lost my faith to this  
_ _This town that don't exist_

_So I run,_ _I run away  
_ _To the lights o_ _f masochists_

They don't want a prophet. The place I'm supposed to be probably does. They'll definitely take me seriously.

_And I_

_Leave behind_

_This hurricane of fucking lies!_

_And I_

_Walked this line_

_A million and one fucking times!_

_But not this time!_

I've contemplated this before. But this time, now that I'm actually doing it, it feels different. More to hope for, more to fear.

They don't deserve my sympathy anyway. I should just walk out of here.

I realize that if I simply take a step forward I'll be out of the house. Reluctantly, I put one foot outside.

_I don't feel any pain  
_ _I won't apologize  
_ _When there ain't nowhere you can go  
_ _Runnin' away from pain  
_ _When you've been victimized  
_ _Tales from another broken...  
_

The other follows it, and now my choice has been made.  


_You're leaving…_

I walk out to the car and enter, slamming the passenger door after putting my baggage in.

_You're leaving…_

I get in, and ignite the engine.

_You're leaving…_

I put the car into reverse, and back down the driveway.

_Ah, you're leaving…_

I finally right myself on the road, then I shift gears into drive, and I'm off.

_Home_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, didn't update for awhile. It's cool now. Well, not the story, just my update schedule. I don't think my story will ever be cool.

**Author's Note:**

> Why no Danger Days for the Gerard/Mikey section? Simple. They're not killjoys yet. Yup, that's my logical reasoning. So, after this, it's gonna be just one storyline at a time. And... I think that's it for now.


End file.
